Page 25 of Emmett

The man behind the bar is one of few people who don’t seem to be afraid of me, and one of even fewer people who prefer to act as if I simply don’t exist. “Good evening, Vincent,” I greet him as I walk behind the bar. The man ignores me, dropping a rag next to him as he finishes wiping down the counter, now reaching for an orange and a utility knife – onenotprovided by the establishment.

“Are you going to cause our clients problems tonight?” Still silence, the only response given to me being that of his knife being pressed too firmly into the piece of fruit. I step closer to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “How is yoursisterdoing, Vincent?”

“Dead three years,” he tells me. “Try something else.”

“So youcanhear me.” With a pat to his shoulder, I tell him, “I’ll be checking in.”

I’m not sure why I keep the man around; it certainly isn’t the way that he tends to manhandle my clients if a complaintcomes in from one of the girls. Maybe it’s the push back. Not many people give me that anymore.

TEN

Emmett

I’ve been at my dad’s for a week now, following all of his rules and guidelines: get up at six thirty, have breakfast with his perfect little family, go to work, come home and work on school crap, have dinner with his perfect little family, rinse and repeat the next day.

There’s no sign of him letting up – or letting me go back to my own place – any time soon, so I just roll with it and try to do what’s asked of me.

It’s uncomfortable being here with him and Rowan, mostly because I never really look at her as his wife. Mystepmom. I see her as my best friend, and as happy as I am for them, it’s still weird for me to see them together sometimes. They don’t really have any books on ‘how to get used to seeing your dad kissing your best friend.’

Using my fork, I pick at the food on my plate; it isn’t that it’s not good, Rowan is an awesome cook. She could do this professionally and do really well with it. I’m just distracted.

I haven’t been able to get that interaction with Nash out of my mind, no matter how hard I try to distract myself from it. If I get really lost in it, I can almost smell his cologne wrapping itself around me. I can feel his body pressing into my shoulder and his breath, hot and light against my ear.

‘Do you want me to own you, pretty boy?’

A bolt of heat shoots down my spine as Nash’s voice replays in my head. My fork clatters to the plate in front of me and a slow, familiar pressure starts to build in my dick.

Not here, for Christ’s sake, I silently beg my body.

“You alright over there, bud?” Dad asks from across the table.

God, this couldn’t get any worse.

I feel like a teenager again, pitching a tent in the middle of social studies because the girl that I like just sat down next to me. All I need now is a poorly-timed voice crack and a set of braces.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I think I’m gonna turn in early. I don’t feel great.”

I carefully stand and grab my plate from the table, stack my silverware and glass on top of it, and ready myself to head out of the dining room.

“What’s wrong?”

“My stomach hurts,” I lie, probably a little too quickly for anyone to actually believe me. As I walk out of the room, I turn to his wife and add, “Thanks for dinner, Ro.”

She offers me a grateful and sympathetic smile with a tilt of her head, probably thinking that I’m about to go have an emotional breakdown or something, because Dad told her that he caught medrowning myselfand now they both think that I’m some fragile, breakable thing that they have to tiptoe around.

I haven’t hauled ass from a room like this in so long that I’ve almost forgotten how to do it smoothly. Once I pass the kitchen, I practically speedwalk up to my room, shutting and locking the door behind me before I flop down onto the bed.

I’m not actuallyattractedto Nash; I’m as straight as a goddamn arrow. I amnotinto men. I’m just going throughsomething heavy and seeking connection with someone - anyone. If I were seeing a therapist like Dad wants me to, they’d probably just charge me four hundred bucks an hour to tell me that this is a totally normal reaction. I was left behind and he gave me attention, so my body is reacting because it lit up the reward center in my brain or something.

That’s all this is. It’s just some abandonment issue crap manifesting itself in a weird way.

Thanks, Mom.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I swipe through my home screen until I see the little flame icon that I’m looking for and I tap to open Tinder. I don’t even bother reading the profiles or flipping through the photos, I just swipe right again and again and again. My Uncle Davis would say that I’m trying to ‘DoorDash some pussy,’ and he would be absolutely right.

After swiping on probably thirty profiles, I set the phone off to the side of me and wait to hear the jingle that tells me I’ve got a match.

Ten minutes go by, and my dick is throbbing.Aching. I check the time; it’s only a little after eight, not exactly hookup hours. With a sigh, I slide my boxers out of the way and wrap my hand around my dick, using my free hand to pull up a good old-fashioned porn site. I go through a handful of pages, each of which ask me if I want to sign up for a premium membership for the low, low price of nineteen ninety-nine a month. I pass on the opportunity.